


Gentille Alouette

by youtounihiru



Category: Mahou Shoujo Madoka Magika | Puella Magi Madoka Magica
Genre: (like way more than last time), Blood and Gore, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Other, also physical. very physical, anyway, rebellion spoilers, the Clara Dolls are also there but shh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 09:16:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16829653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youtounihiru/pseuds/youtounihiru
Summary: ... je te plumerai.





	Gentille Alouette

**Author's Note:**

> A post-Rebellion AU in which Homura keeps Madoka captive to prevent her from returning to Godhood.  
> Obviously contains Rebellion spoilers. and LOTS of gore, as I've mentioned.   
> Also Homura speaks French now, I guess? Don't question it.  
> Yet again, it's worth noting that I *DO NOT* ship post-Rebellion Homura and Madoka.

“ _Alouette_ , _gentille alouette_ …”

It's almost impossible to hear her own voice, soft yet unwavering, over the agonized screams ringing off the walls and threatening to burst her eardrums (my! what a large voice for such a tiny thing!), but Homura does not falter, singing the child's song under her breath as she relishes its irony given the situation at hand.

The song had risen from somewhere in her abyssal mind, an admittedly morbid melody about the plucking and subsequent murder of a sweet little songbird (and his crime? the unintended parting of lovers brought on by his heartfelt morning tune!), and while the repetition makes itself quite a nuisance, she cannot help but admire the timing. What better song could accompany the task at hand? Smiling bitterly in her amusement, the fallen angel rips yet another fistful of bloodied feathers (and even further screams) from the little goddess and her newfound deformities.

“… _Alouette_ , _je te plumerai_.”

Checking up on Madoka, hidden down in the bowels of her home where no prying eyes could spot her, was a daily ritual, one she had never missed or delayed, but today's visit had turned up… unexpected results. She had frozen with horror in the door frame as she found the poor thing hunched over on the floor, face pale and chest heaving as the taut skin over her shoulder blades tore bloodlessly. The crisp wings burst forth from the wounds, perfect and painfully pure, and flexed in the stale basement air, celebrating their freedom from their fleshy prison. Madoka had only been lifted ever so slightly from the floor before Homura could intervene, clinging tightly to her trembling form and spoon-feeding her the same necessary lies that had eased such threatening transformations before. Yet despite her hasty interference the wings had not shrunk back at her unholy touch, instead stunting in growth and leaving their pitiful host with pitiful little pinions hardly capable of anything beyond hovering.

But even this cannot stand. Even such miserable excuses for wings pose the risk of reminding Madoka of her former throne in Heaven – and the thought of Her Beloved daring an airborne escape paralyzes Homura with fear. No. They would certainly need to be dealt with.

“ _Je te plumerai les ailes_.”

The first wing isn’t easy, to say the least. The feathers seem far more resilient than those of the avian variety – and far messier, as she discovers, both hands quickly becoming slick with blood after only the first few of her primary feathers are plucked and broken. The wild writhing of her little lark and the tormenting shrieks she offers in place of song help to hinder her progress, but she does not waver, determined to clip the little bird’s wings before she flies away. Within time her efforts are rewarded, and she finds herself surrounded by piles of sanguine-stained down, while the swollen ligament, stripped of both flesh and feather, tightly folds itself against Madoka's bare back to escape further harm. Homura supposed she will have to remove it as well – even robbed of flight they might induce the return of undesirable memories, but for the time being she focuses her sights on the remaining wing and its quivering plumage. The song off her lips grows louder, repeated in mocking tones of demeaning dolls just beyond the corners of her vision, but she knows they will not interfere, having no interest in saving the goddess from her undeserved punishment.

“ _Je te plum_ …” Madoka's wails reach a fervent pitch as she tears another large handful of feathers from her flesh, blood quickly welling up from the pinpricks and remnants left behind, and The Devil Herself finally hesitates only to offer empty comforts to her pleading prisoner, rubbing her sore back with one hand while tightly gripping the joint of her wing with the other. “You know I don’t want to hurt you. But this is for your own good. We can't have you flying away from m… away from _home_ , now can we? My little _alouette_ …”

She smiles sadistically in spite of her words, and continues whispering sweet nothings and ignoring Madoka's whimpering sobs for another moment longer before sharply ripping the aerial wrist upwards, breaking the cartilage with a satisfying snap and drawing a new height of screaming from the betrayed divine's throat. The dolls erupt in to a sea of cheers and false tears, and Homura releases her grip on the destroyed ligament, allowing it to hang loosely against her skin.

The dethrowned goddess’s form trembles with the sheer force of her sobs, let alone the involuntary shuddering brought on by the agony inevitably pulsing through her, and the Devil decides to take pity on her prisoner for the time being. The wings must be removed in their entirety, of course, but at the moment she lacks the proper tools for such a task – and she doubts Madoka runs the risk of remembering much in her current state. Soon she'll return and finish the messy work, but for now she locks her darling little angel away from the world yet again, returning to her throne to ascertain the stability of her new world.

Some time passes before Homura is again free to do as she pleases – playing God is quite the task, as one might imagine! – and as always she chooses to spend this time with her dearest Madoka, even if the task at hand is certain to be unpleasant for one of them. Equipped with the tools necessary, Lucifer returns to her beloved's chambers – ah! and what a nasty surprise she finds waiting there! for the tormented creature turns her dirty, tear-stained face upon her horrid host, and while her gaze is tired, too broken to be fearful, the eyes that watch Homura so wearily are golden, jewels of godhood resting in unfitting mortal sockets. For a moment she is stunned by this revelation, regarding her little songbird with great alarm – then she sighs, a genuinely sorrowful sound, as she approaches, gripping the blade in her palm with newfound purpose. This isn’t Madoka’s fault, of course. It never is. But it must be dealt with. For her own good.

“ _Je te plumerai les yeux_.”


End file.
